


Hallowed

by UnrealRomance



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hallows Eve, Not spooky, a bit heathen pagan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 20:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12565580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnrealRomance/pseuds/UnrealRomance
Summary: I tilt my head and then feel a thrill of tension when she walks to the bed, kneeling to pull out…her paints and a canvas. She wants…to paint me.Not really Halloween-y. More just...Hallows-y or Samhain-y. Though still not quite like that either, I suppose. Enjoy.





	Hallowed

**Author's Note:**

> Just some Holiday specific...I dunno what this is, really. It spoke to me.
> 
> This isn't dependent on and does not affect, any of my other works.

"I thought you did _not_ worship Loki," I stare at the black altar in her room with some confusion.

"I don't, exactly," she responds. Shrugging, she lights the incense half of the Altar."But this is a show of respect for what he represents to me, more than anything else." She settles on the ground before the altar with care. Making herself comfortable.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and- "it smells like honey cakes."

"Loki's a sweet fiend," she grins and picks up a bottle of her newly-made honey mead to pour into the offering bowl on the other side of the altar. "Sharing tasty treats is one of the ways you reach out and touch him, in a purely spiritual sense."

Fascinating. Not very different from what Thedosians do, really…but she does not attribute her ritual to…worship. "What is another way?" I ask as I settle on the floor next to her.

"Ritual, prayer…the usual," she shrugs. "Maybe even sacrifice, though…I don't know if Loki actually accepts animal sacrifice…" She pauses to consider that. "Even if he did, I wouldn't be doing that. I need to meditate for a while, so you can't talk to me until I'm done."

Ah. I nod and settle into a more comfortable position to watch.

She is still looking at me, and quirks a brow, "what?"

"I am observing," I reply.

Her lips purse, "you're not gonna see much besides me closing my eyes and humming."

"There is no verse you recite?" yet another difference?

"There's…a personal…thing?" she speaks haltingly, blushing as her words falter. "Like a…written pledge or promise? But I do it in my head, usually. So you wouldn't hear it."

"Is there a reason it is personal? Beyond being a prayer?" I ask.

It is the wrong thing to say.

"It's not a prayer," she says with some annoyance.

I make a gesture of surrender with my hands, "what do you call it, then?"

"It's an affirmation, to remind me of what I emulate and why," she responds.

I hum, then settle into silence. Hoping she will simply allow me to stay if I am silent.

She stares at me for a moment, more directly at my eyes, before closing her own and taking a deep breath.

Breathing slowly and deeply, she relaxes her body in increments, starting from her head, down the rest of her body. I can see how her face relaxes, and then her shoulders…and then her arms…

Her voice breaks the silence with an unfamiliar cadence. She is…speaking it aloud.

For me, perhaps? Or is she unaware of doing it?

" _My purpose is to heal and nurture, but I will injure, maim or kill to protect others if need be_ ," she intones.

She is speaking in Elvhen, but why? Has she switched languages for _my_ benefit? Or perhaps...

" _Death is a terrible gift and I will not wield it lightly, but I will not shy away from its necessity_ ," her tone rises and falls with compassion and condemnation.

" _I will not lie to those I love, but mislead those who may wish us harm_ ," simply stated but with such an undertone of vehemence…this is important.

" _I will protect all people under my governance, but also teach them to protect themselves_ ," her voice emboldens with purpose.

" _My people will know how to think for themselves and I will refrain from training them to think like me_ ," humility and pride.

" _I will not think myself more worthy of life or respect than someone else. Even if I hate them_ ," that is difficult to put a name to, the emotions she speaks that particular line with. This is something she struggles with.

" _I will not make my mistakes other people's problems, and I will try to stop meddling so much in theirs_ ," the struggle in her tone here is against something larger than before. More difficult for her to resist.

" _Self Improvement will be my every day devotion and I will worship at that altar until my dying day_ ," she says it clearly and enunciates with strength.

" _I will share my power with those who have the least, and refrain from thinking myself important_ ," matter of fact. That is not quite something she needs to be reminded of, I would think. But perhaps this is why.

" _I will strive never to be set in my ways and always to consider another option_ ," she bows her head at that.

" _My life will be spent in service to others because I choose it, not because I am afraid of divine retribution_ ," she finishes.

And then I see...as she contemplates…

Her soul begins to leak from her every pore.

Brilliant golden light shimmers and ripples out of her in a great cloud of mist or…perhaps fog. It captivates me. Even when I notice the green entwined with it, instead of self-hate I simply admire the way the two fit together.

Green was always the color of my soul, before…the Veil. Afterwards…

I call my soul to the surface, not touching hers or…going near her, but…

The blue light looks as it always does, much the same as hers but for the color. That is one of the things that has been lost, I think. I do not know. Perhaps we are simply too similar.

Each and every soul looks and feels differently. Ours are…wispy, smoke-like and shimmer with our hidden depths. Mine in darker and lighter blues, hers with green and…bits of black, actually. Pitch black, like the void. I wonder what traits she holds so deep inside that she would consider so horrible? Or, knowing her affection for the color black, so good?

Or perhaps it is simply the other side of her nature, and it means nothing at all except that it is hidden. Souls are…difficult to decipher. They have always been that way. That is why intermingling souls was so commonplace. Staring straight into someone else's being did not give you…anything. But the beauty of it.

Nik perceives that I must glean something from the soul itself, and she thinks it a private thing. Emotions, sensations, can be communicated of course, but… I cannot figure her out the way she thinks I must be able to, simply by looking or touching.

And the way we have touched souls in the past is…different. She focuses too heavily on clashing against me, and it is…different, than I am used to. You were only supposed to collide when-

Well, she is unaware, and I try to keep it…from affecting me.

Though when she reaches for me, as she is doing now, it is difficult.

Her golden mist seeps slowly through the room, but goes only so far from her in every other direction. For me, it…comes further. Closing itself slowly around my body and seeping through the spaces between me…between my soul's…pieces…

She calls the small bits in the air, molecules, does she not? She has never explained them to my satisfaction, but it is an apt descriptor, I think. Tiny bits that are not visible, fitting between other bits that are not visible. The molecules of our souls, slipping into place and fitting together…perfectly.

And then she opens her eyes, and looks at me. Blinking and turning her head as if she's just woken from a dream.

Her eyes, usually gray, now black with glimmering curls of gold shifting within. Her eyes widen when she looks at me, and I believe perhaps this is the first time she has seen what I can see.

I realize I am holding my breath and exhale carefully as I ask, "may I speak now?" Softly. Carefully. Almost too soft to hear. I am leaned so far over my lap to be closer to her, it alarms me to realize I am nearly on my hands and knees- almost as if I intended to crawl to her, perhaps.

I have so many questions, questions that she would not have the answers to. So many things I wish to say.

She is staring at me, and does so for a long…series of moments that feel like an eternity to me. What is she looking at?

"Can you talk while sitting still?" she asks, finally. Getting up from the floor.

I tilt my head and then feel a thrill of tension when she walks to the bed, kneeling to pull out…her paints and a canvas. She wants…to paint me.

My insides squirm. "You wish to paint me?" I ask.

"You can just change your face, Solas. I'm not cementing you any more than you want to be," she informs me. And I recall that yes, she is acquainted with many methods for such things. Research. Both magical and surgical. It would be no problem for me to…change it.

I have become rather fond of this face, for some odd reason. But I could cast it off, she is…right.

That…relieves me, a bit. The fact that she knows I do not wish to be connected to any specific time in history by paintings is a bit…uncomfortably telling.

"I…alright," I shift my weight. No longer leaning so far over my lap, in a more comfortable position with my forearms still poised on my thighs but not quite so…heavily.

"Don't move anymore," she says as she begins.

And then it is as if nothing in the room exists but her, the paint and her subject. She glances up at me as she first outlines the painting on the clear white surface and as I cannot move, all I can see are light gray lines. Not the image they form, not from this angle.

She props the painting up on her lap in a way that hides all of it from me…and then she paints.

Her expression has become even and flat, but for a slight furrow of her brow and the occasional purse of her lips. She seems to take everything quite lightly, so to see her so focused and serious when someone's life is not on the line is…a novelty, of sorts. It is strange and new and different.

Interesting. Fascinating. And as I have nowhere else to look, I stare. I watch as she works, taking in the shift of her arm as she does first broad, sweeping strokes and then over time observe the way she begins to switch colors more often and change to smaller brushes.

She notices, partway through and seems to become flustered. What does she think I could do? Close my eyes? But as she says nothing, I assume she simply didn't think about that and was surprised to look into my eyes to find them centered on her.

I watch the flush under her skin spread from her throat and cheeks. Wondering how far down it goes. And then internally shaking myself at the thought. I do not need my soul changing to fit my new climate and foiling her attempts at…whatever it is she is attempting to paint of me.

"What are you painting, exactly?" I ask carefully.

"You," she replies. "What did you think I was painting?"

"I meant…which me?" I ask.

She blinks and glances at me, and then returns to her work, "the you I see in front of me right now…? I don't even know what _he_ looks like. Beyond that he resembles you, with hair."

"No, I meant…" I chuckle a bit at that. She does not realize how her perceptions color him. I will not be the one to tell her. It is something you discover for yourself, I believe. As I did, after being hit over the head with it…so many times. "The me inside, or the me outside," I clarify.

"I intend to do both," she replies.

"Oh," is my breathless response.

She is attempting to capture both the physical and the spirit? How will she do that? I find myself incredibly curious. And skeptical. "You realize you cannot see me…quite as clearly on the inside as you think."

The pause she takes before looking up at me with narrowed eyes is telling. "How could I see better?" she asks.

"Veilfire," I respond, twitching my fingers and lighting the candles in her room with it. Replacing the real fire, in an instant. A flicker.

She stares at me with wide eyes again, and I take the opportunity to observe the way the veilfire brings the black into focus. As if it is simply the other side of the gold. Showing itself only from certain angles. A subtle glow of green. Red at her feet where the power of the earth lays waiting for her to take it, and is…simply there. Existing.

She does not know how to consume ambient energy, I think.

"Okay," she whispers. "No more moving."

And the painting begins again, this time with more urgency, as if she is afraid to lose something if she does not finish it now, now, faster. And instead of steadiness or concentration, her expression is now open with…something. Wide eyed, parted lips, as if she is seeing something worthy of awe.

I glance down at the curling coils of dark bluish gray and wonder why it is so interesting to her.

Perhaps for the same reason it is interesting to me? To see her truest depths displayed on the surface, though I've no idea what it might mean? To feel the way we intertwine so perfectly, the way my people always…used to?

The dark bluish gray of my soul brushes against her skin, curls around her in rollicking fingertips of smoke. While her own bright gold and black sit above her skin, much the way souls usually do. My own never touches my physical vessel either. It seems to emanate outward from above it, I suppose. Like hers.

The gold of her own soul is permitted closer to me. Inside. Around. Touching. It communicates the barest wisp of her focus, her…need. It is a need, that much is certain. Something seems to have taken hold of her. And I realize this is what inspiration feels like for her.

It does feel incredibly intimate to realize that.

"I'm…uh…" she has paused to look at her hands with some panic. "Where is it?"

Ah.

"Breathe," I say. Shifting my focus from myself and back to her. How we intertwine. "It is still there. It is simply more difficult to see."

"Why?" she asks. Soothed as the gold glimmers back to the surface.

I smile to reassure her, "my focus shifted, my apologies. I will…be as I was." I am…embarrassed that I lost focus so easily.

She returns to her painting with a distracted hum. "You can get up and move around now, I've…got the base down."

"We are missing lunch," I inform her. She needs to eat. She doesn't normally neglect that.

"You can go, I just…I can't stop," she says as her brow furrows and her expression becomes one of concentration again.

"I will bring food back for you," I say. But I don't believe she hears me.

Sighing and pushing myself onto my feet, I relish the last few moments in her presence as I walk to the door, open it and then step out, leaving the Veilfire lit with a curl of energy to sustain it.

I pull my soul back inside once I'm…outside her room.

Feeling as though all color and light and warmth has left the world, I walk quickly for the kitchens, intending to return as quickly as possible. I want…to bask in her presence a bit longer. No matter how embarrassing that desire is now that it is not always possible.

It is not her fault that she cannot usually…accommodate this need of mine. But she will take it that way, if I tell her. As a personal challenge that may end with her being able to. But also may end in her tears and frustration if she finds that she can't.

She is progressing faster than I could have ever expected her to. I must be patient and let it happen in its own time.

I know this.

But I feel empty without the contact, and alone in the world- moreso than I did this morning, or even an hour earlier. It is sharper now, but it will fade, I know this.

I return to her room with apple tarts, peanut butter cookies and two glasses of milk.

At the door, I let my soul uncurl enough to open it for me. Then walk inside and allow it to further unfurl into the room as I walk across to set the tray on her table. The door shutting silently behind me.

It is like a sigh of relief, the way our souls fit back together perfectly without a single struggle. I wonder how much longer she will be able to stay like this, and if perhaps she is always like this while painting. I will have to be with her when she does it more often.

I settle on the bed, plucking one of her books off the shelf next to it. Finding myself in possession of a romance. Yet another. Ear marked in several places, and when I open it, I am surprised to find notes in the margins and between lines.

Notes about unrealistic positions and movements in the sex scenes and then later, suggestions for softer forms of intimacy.

It isn't until I look back at the title that I realize this is the new chapter of Swords and Shields Varric gave her to look over. I am grinning as I go back to look through the dogeared pages again. Noticing her incredulity at some of the things he writes and her request that he 'oh god, please stop doing this' again and again through many pages.

Mostly it seems she takes issue with the female character noticing her body overly much. I must agree. No one pays that close attention to themselves while simply walking about. Certainly not like this, I would assume.

"Holy shit," she mutters, breaking the silence. And then glares at me. "Why did you do that?"

I frown and put the book away, "do what?"

"My canvas just dried and…" she tilts her head. "It looks like there's…movement?"

My heart thuds in my throat and I wonder if she has done what I think she has done.

She stands and holds it out to me. Looking uncertain and insecure, but demanding an explanation. "What's going on? What happened to it?"

I take the canvas and…pause. Staring at it.

I am caught. At the image of myself.

I am in a room of nearly translucent walls and floors, her room but…seen through the Fade. My physical presence barely glimpsed in bits and pieces through the curls of blueish gray smoke. Dappled with lighter and darker tones of blue, slivers of silver seeming to pierce in places- glimmers of her golden pieces curled around me and even the glow of the green…

And between those curls of smoke are my eyes, my lips, my jaw…my fingertips sparking with energy just after I have used magic. The earth's red energy disappearing around me, because it has been siphoned inside me. My eyes glimmering gems- the whole image seems to suggest motion and everything…sparkles? Just a bit.

"I did not do…this. This is…you," I say. Slowly, haltingly.

"I don't know _how_ to do that," she says. "Veil?"

"It is not Veil, either. It is just you," I say with some emphasis. "Your soul etched itself into this painting and when you directed your willpower to…something tangible…it came to its full potential. I haven't seen this technique or anything like it…" I whisper now. "In the days of the Ancients…art was effortless for those who could see beauty. Not always…good. But you did not have to struggle to communicate your emotions with it. This is…" My head tilts as I gaze down at the painting, eyes feeling…embarrassingly wet. "This is Thedas without a Veil to hinder it. This…"

She so seamlessly blended the inner me and the outer me, the physical and the layers of spirit- and I cannot do the same.

She has an understanding of me that I cannot duplicate. Not yet. But I will remember, and I will…someday return the favor.

"Oooh, peanut butter!" she has already drifted away to grab a cookie. "What?" she makes a face at my smirking expression. "I'm hungry!"

"You just did some magnificent feat of magic and you are completely unconcerned with what it means," I tell her with amusement.

She shrugs, "either Loki intervened there at the end or I was experiencing more clarity and focus because of my meditation. Either way, no reason to sweat. It's pretty and I got…almost exactly what I was going for."

"It…" I am tracing the newly dried paint with careful fingertips, afraid to ruin it. "This is the most beautiful thing I have seen in…a very long time."

"Yours are better," she says.

I look up and see her still eating, dunking her cookies in milk, but with shoulders slightly bowed inward and expression carefully blank.

"No, I do not believe they are," I would choke on the words if I were any more effected. "You don't understand…you've…you've put your soul into this. Not just metaphorically, literally. You've left bits of yourself- molecules, embedded in it."

She blinks, "oh." And then turns a bit pink. "You could do it better though, it's just a fact. You've been doing it a lot longer, right?"

"I could do it differently, perhaps," I reply, gripping the painting and holding it up before conjuring a wisp to see it better. "Is this what you see when you look at me?"

"In candlelight and looking through the Fade with Veilfire," she says. "Kind of…intertwined?"

I put the painting down carefully on her bed and join her at the table. Staring at the tarts for several moments, attempting to…bring myself back down to my usual state of amused indifference at the world. But I find it incredibly difficult.

And then she is touching my lips with a torn-off bit of tart in her fingers. I don't mean to open my mouth, consciously.

And when I realize what I have done, my lips close around her fingers and it makes an…obscene noise when she pulls her fingertips away.

We both freeze and I can see the way the pink spreads, yet again. And again I wonder…how far down it goes.

* * *

 


End file.
